


Welcome Abroad

by sangueuk



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>>: Most of the way through their third mission, McCoy has died some months back. Mirror!Jim is handling it. He meets Bones’ kid, eighteen year old Cadet McCoy for the first time in ten years.<br/><b>Warnings</b>: Language and sexual references, and mild violence. Themes of loss and death which may be triggery for some. <i>Allusion to main character death.</i></p><p> </p><p>Intriguing snippet: <i> “Cadet McCoy - permission to come aboard, Captain?”</i></p><p><i>Jim nods, unable to speak, struck dumb by the figure before him, so like Bones, yet so much himself. Joe.<br/></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Abroad

**Author's Note:**

> Just for ‘fun’ I decided to turn Joanna McCoy into a son, rather than daughter. I blame Ian Somerhalder who’s the ‘actor’ playing the role of eighteen year old _Joseph_ McCoy. The idea came from a conversation I had with hitlikehammers where I decided that Somerhalder looks exactly like the son of mirror!Jim and mirror!Bones. This is a birthday fic for her.

**Welcome Aboard**

It’s been ten long months.

Jim’s refused to even think about arrangements until a few days ago, when another irritable missive from Starfleet couldn’t be ignored. He ordered Uhura to re-word his terse reply, “Fuck you – _okay then_ ,” into something considerably less incendiary, then dumped the whole load on her, insisting he was too fucking busy and didn’t give a crap. Truth is, the last thing Jim fucking wants is to have to look at the kid’s face, see Bones reflected in it, in the thick eye-brows the dark shock of hair – and be reminded of what he’s lost.

Jim hasn’t set eyes on the McCoy brat for ten years, and doesn’t want to now he’s turned eighteen. Naturally, Jim has the kid under twenty-four hour surveillance, has had since the academy, but he’s never had any personal interest (other than to keep Bones from bitching) -- one weakness has been plenty, thank you. So their contact has been minimal, nothing since that time Jim accompanied Bones to Atlanta, unwilling to have his dirt-side fuck-fest interrupted by his CMO’s trademark sentimentality for more than a few hours. Jim remembers how he read reports, took a nap, while the two of them laughed in the suite, remembers being surprised how the fact that here was someone who had a greater thrall over his petulant fuck-toy, didn’t threaten him in the least. And if Jim had thought sex with Bones was spectacular up until that point, nothing compared to the sweet capitulation of gratitude from his CMO following the meet-up with his kid. It kept them both in the bed for the rest of the week.

Irritated, Jim shakes free from the tyranny of his memories with a jolt. What the fuck is he thinking?

He’s destroyed all of McCoy’s holovids, all his personal effects, all trace of him. He can’t fucking bear to look at images of Bones, to think about him, to be reminded of him. Jim’s always been able to handle the booth, not that he ever has to these days, but this – this _emptiness_ – it’s the kind of agony he can’t breathe through, detach from. So he doesn’t allow it to surface, even in the privacy of his own quarters.

Once, just once, Jim cried, shortly after the first twenty-four hours and he’d made sure to punish himself by laying his agonizer across his heart and holding still until the tears turned into hatred and rage, rather than those born from self-pity and loss.

Jim folds his arms as he waits for Cadet McCoy to materialize, winces at the movement where he’d dislocated his shoulder again, bringing down the bastards who’d…he swallows, rage heating up his skin like acid when he remembers how _after_ , M’Benga had _touched him_ , manipulated the bone back into place and had crashed satisfyingly across the trolley in Sickbay, his lip split and seeping blood, when Jim backhanded him for daring to _cross the fucking line_.

Of course Jim knows this can’t go on, his refusal to allow any kind of medical treatment. He won’t always be able to work the regen himself, and he knows he’s been lucky to escape anything more than deep cuts. He’ll have to learn some kind of trust but, for now, he’s not ready for anything other than the empty contact of various buxom, always blonde ensigns, ordered to his quarters, sometimes more than one at a time. He glares at them while they ride his cock, sips from a tumbler of whiskey, keeps his uniform on, not daring to close his eyes even when he comes, detached, sneering, and throws them out

Meanwhile, Jim’s spies inform him the crew’s unsettled, they’re worried by how their captain’s volatile and easily moved to violence. Spock’s warned him he needs to get a grip, show he’s the old Jim, that he’s in control. They’ve thwarted half a dozen coups thus far and lately even Spock’s backed off. The booth’s been working overtime and Jim’s learning to keep his own counsel. Has too - he’s alone now and can’t trust anyone, just like before.

Fucking med students, fucking pain-in-the-ass Starfleet rotation. Jim wishes now, though you’d have to hold a dagger to his scrotum and have him ingest half-a-dozen centurion slugs to make him admit this out loud, how he wishes he’d made the effort to grant McCoy’s request to bring his kid on board all those years ago; how this wouldn’t be such a big of a deal seeing the youngster now. _It’ll be safer here, Jim._ Yeah, _right_ , safe under the captain’s protection. Bones being taken away from Jim proved just how fucking safe his god dammed ship is.

Jim glances over at Scotty, breathes through the lump in his throat and adopts his best neutral, bad-ass look. It used to come easy. Now, well, he’s just having to make what had become unconscious skills conscious again. He shouldn’t be here anyway, protocol dictates that the captain only greets visiting dignitaries, admirals, and certainly not children. He can sense the tension in the air, Chekov and M’Benga composed, impassive to his right but, the nervous energy, he can fucking smell it.

“Energise!”

The whine of the transporter sends prickles of adrenaline through Jim’s neck and back. He’s not ready to see that face just yet. It’s taken some figuring out, how to be alone again, not that he’s ever shared anything other than his cock and teeth with Bones, but the man came closest to knowing Jim than anyone in the past fifteen years; three missions, countless fights, so much fucking, their form of intimacy. Leonard McCoy was the only man Jim’s ever slept next to, felt safe with; the man who saved him, and who’s now cursed him.

“Cadet McCoy - permission to come aboard, Captain?”

Jim nods, unable to speak, struck dumb by the figure before him, so like Bones, yet so much himself. Joe.

Jim manages to form the words, hides the pang of loss under the smooth smile he adopts in such situations, the kind that never reach his eyes. “Permission granted,” he says, turning away to indicate M’Benga. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of our acting CMO, Doctor M’Benga. And Commander Chekov who will share your quarters with you throughout your stay.”

Joe McCoy steps elegantly off the transporter pad, hands folded behind his back and Jim can feel his heart pounding in his ears. _This was a fucking mistake_ , he thinks.

He appraises the tall, rangy figure in cadet reds and can’t help making comparisons.

It’s the same dark chocolate hair that won’t sit down, shoulders not as broad, but the same tapered waist and slender hips. The same fuckable mouth. There’s the trademark McCoy steady gaze, an air of insolence and Jim’s reminded of the first time he set eyes on Bones, how it thrilled him to meet the only sane person in the universe that wasn’t afraid of him, who dared to test him.

M’Benga heads out first, with Cadet McCoy sauntering behind, a grim faced Chekov taking up the rear. The boy pauses at the doors and looks over his shoulder at Jim. He doesn’t have the submissive expression Jim’s become accustomed to and the direct eye-contact pisses him off, takes him by surprise. He wonders what Bones has told Joe about him, how to play this meeting if ever it should occur and his hand moves instinctively to his dagger, while he considers whether it would cause too much of a shit-storm with the admirality if he cut that smirk of the brat’s face.

Mercifully for the cadet, he moves on and the doors swish closed behind the group.

Jim raises an eyebrow, glances at Scotty who’s smart enough to have eyes front.

“Chip off the old block,” Scotty says as the captain finally loosens his hand from the knife at his belt.

Jim moves like a cat, grabs Scotty by the throat, bends him over the console. “You so much as say another word, even fucking _think_ his name, I’ll snap your neck, commander. One hour in the booth should remind you of your place.”

Scotty splutters, salutes and stays frozen in position. Scotty misses Bones too, of course he does, but he should know better. Bones was Jim’s, always will be. And now all he has left are memories, thoughts, they’re his alone too.

Jim pats Scotty on the head and stalks out of the transporter room and, if there’s a lightness to his step, he’s not going to allow it to mean anything.

Until, two hours later, when Jim sits in his ready room, turns on the vid feed into Sickbay, wonders if the little McCoy shit’s still cut free, if M’Benga’s taught him his first lesson about life abroad the _Enterprise_ yet. Chekov’s there to stop assassination, but he won’t step in when it’s about pecking order. Junior’s gotta learn just like the rest of the whelps skulking round the ship’s halls.

Jim leans back in his chair, stretches out his legs under the desk and blinks when he hears M’Benga’s baritone laughter. They’re in the office, Joe leaning on the desk, the doctor showing him something on his PADD and no sign of Chekov who’s probably touching up the nurses.

“Computer, magnify cadet McCoy.”

His face is squarer than Bones’ was, more cheekbone, skin paler by far but yeah, there are the same fuck-off eyebrows, the same ironic twang to his almost imperceptible Atlanta accent. Jim compares the upper lip, notes that the slight imbalance in the fullness of his father’s cupid bow is exaggerated here, makes Joe seem half drawn, an imperfect copy. Jim presses his index finger to the area between his eyebrows.

“Magnify another 50%,” he whispers, leans forward, examines the eyes.

This kid doesn’t have the same affliction Bones did. There’s no hint of compassion or weakness in those eyes – they’re knowing, cold, crinkling round the edges as he joins M’Benga in whatever hilarity they’re sharing.

Pale blue irises, shining with self-confidence suddenly flicker towards him and Jim fights the feeling that the kid knows he’s being watched. Blue like his own, he thinks in disgust, as if Joe had been some bastard spawn of his and Bones. And the little shit hasn’t blinked once then, when Joe arches an eyebrow as if for Jim’s benefit, he snaps, “screen off” and slams his fist on the desk.

He’s going to have to have the little fuck brought to his quarters, have a man-to-man talk, teach him some respect. It’s going to be a lesson hard won, Jim thinks, licking his lips, but he owes that much to Leonard McCoy’s memory.

 

~END~

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